


It Creeps Up On You

by pocketmouse



Category: Torchwood
Genre: 5 Things, Crossdressing, F/M, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-28
Updated: 2009-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She finds it hard to flat-out ask, out of nowhere. It reduces her to stammering and stuttering, and she hates that. The easiest way is to just trick herself into saying it, make herself believe it’s something casual, when really she’s going to say “I want to see you in a skirt.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Creeps Up On You

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to my beta, invisible_lift, for helping with this fic. He went well above and beyond the normal call of duty in helping me on this one.

Tosh hasn’t really paid much attention to their new medic. After all, she doesn’t go out in the field, so what use is he to her? He seems content to keep to himself as well; she hardly ever sees him outside of the medical bay, except for the occasional briefing.

She’s fine with that. She doesn’t know what Jack has told him about her, and she doesn’t mind keeping the illusion that he doesn’t know what she’d done, or how she is here.

So she ignores him. The first time she is really forced to take notice of him is when he isn’t even there. She’s been too busy trying to determine a way out of her first solo mission when Jack comes in and says that Owen is missing, and that Tosh will have to fill in for him.

“Fill in? H-how? Jack, I can’t —”

“Sure you can, Tosh,” Jack says, smile warm, hand heavy on her shoulder.

And so she’s packed off to London — _London_, part of her quivers — with a lab coat, a briefing file, and a strong desire to punch Owen Harper in his skinny little mouth.

The only reason she doesn’t when she sees him again is because she’s too relieved that nothing _happened_; Jack had kept Yvonne and the others well away. And, well, Space Pig. Jack takes them all out to the bar and everyone laughs at the story (even if Tosh does think it’s a bit sad: the poor pig).

When Jack announces to Owen that he’ll have to take on Tosh’s next job, Tosh nearly spills her drink in surprise. Owen thinks buying her another will get him out of it. She takes the drink, but makes him take the job anyway.

She’d forgotten that the mission specifically called for a woman.

She only remembers when she comes back up from the server room and hears Owen and Suzie bickering. This isn’t really anything new — Owen seems to want to argue with everyone, about every_thing_ — but she turns towards the doorway anyway, possibly to yank Owen’s chain a little, possibly just out of boredom. Either way, all thoughts of saying anything are driven out of her head when she sees Owen standing there.

He’s wearing a mid-length skirt — cut well above the knee, but long enough to distract from the fact that he has no hips to speak of — and his legs below that are smooth, well-muscled, in smart heels. He’s standing very carefully, like he’s still trying to find his balance. Her mouth goes a little dry. He’s got on a camisole and a white blouse, unbuttoned, and there’s a matching blazer draped over the back of the chair. He’s wearing lipstick.

Something twists in Tosh’s gut, and there’s a familiar heat between her legs. She’s frozen though, heart pounding in her chest. Fortunately, Owen’s not looking out the door. He’s looking deeper into the room, at Suzie, she supposes. He says something she doesn’t catch and cups his hands against his chest, imitating breasts, and as Suzie catches his hands and pushes them down, Tosh turns and flees back down the corridor.

She leans against the closed door to the bathroom for a moment before turning to scrabble the lock closed, then falls back again. She feels like she’s in shock, and every time she closes her eyes she sees Owen again, that lazy slouch straightened, scowl softened out, tongue peeking out hesitantly to taste the slick surface of his lips, and oh —

She wants, she realizes, to take that apart. To slide her hands up under that camisole and run her hands over his chest, to grind down against him, to fuck him, skirt slid up around his hips, to taste all that smooth skin. Her cheeks burn, and she runs her fingers over her breasts, imagining his lips on them, his tongue —

No. She jerks her hands away, and they waver in the air for a moment, lost. She can’t do this. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes and breathes slowly, counting backwards from 100, until the image of Owen is gone, the spots from the pressure taking it over.

The next time she sees him, he’s dressed normally again, all signs of the makeup gone. When he cracks a joke about the Space Pig, all she can do is smile back, and hurry on with her work.

* * *

The problem is, even after she stops seeing it every time she looks at him, she can’t actually forget. Even small things remind her, like the way he tilts his head, or when she gets a glimpse of him from behind when he’s got his lab coat on, hands in pockets gathering it tight at the waist. She tries not to be obsessive about it — she still doesn’t know what to do about it, if doing something is even an option. Then an overheard comment between Jack and Suzie makes her realize that Suzie and Owen are up to something, and Tosh crushes any thoughts of disappointment and redoubles her efforts to move on.

Except it seems that Owen has developed a habit of losing his clothing.

First there’s the Weevil with the projectile vomiting, which is when Owen discovers he’s out of spare clothes. He starts out stubbornly just wearing the towel around his waist, which is bad enough, but when Jack makes a particularly pointed comment and Owen blushes, it’s easy for Tosh to see the way the blush travels down his entire chest. She looks away, but she can’t help glancing up every now and again, and — well, she’s not the only one tracking him on CCTV, she’s sure. She goes to his flat and gets clothes for him less out of pity and more out of self-preservation.

Then there’s the trip up to Carmarthen, just her and Owen, and they get caught in an absolutely torrential downpour. She wants to wait it out in the warehouse, but Owen sensibly points out that they’ve left all their gear unsecured in the car, right on the river, and if anything were to happen...

So he dashes out into the storm and brings back the SUV, and they shelter in the cavernous space of the warehouse. Sitting inside the parked vehicle at least cuts out most of the noise of the wind and rain, and Tosh finally starts to feel warm again. But then she’s suddenly _too_ warm as Owen starts to strip.

“What —” she says, as his shirt lands in the back seat with a soggy slap. His chest is smooth.

“‘M fucking _freezing_,” he mutters, contorting in the driver’s seat, and then his trousers are gone too. His white briefs are soaked, and stick closely to his skin. She looks away, heat on her cheeks. “See if we have any of those foil emergency blankets, yeah?” he asks as he carefully peels his socks off.

Tosh moves hurriedly to the back seat, ostensibly to look for the first aid kit. She finds one — just one — and she isn’t sure whether she’s disappointed or relieved that she’s not soaked as well. Her imagination is going into overdrive. She turns around to hand it back over to him and is caught by the slope of his pale shoulder, the curve of his back. She wants to press her hand against it, leave a mark, like the first stroke of kanji on fresh parchment. Tosh shakes her hand and doesn’t look back until he’s draped the blanket over himself again, enduring his mockery of her prudishness. She won’t sleep easily that night.

But nothing is as bad as the time Owen, Jack, and Ianto have an unexpected encounter with some nanobots. Tosh has already got a trace started, and Suzie’s working on several hardware options and locking down the Hub, but the three men are stuck in decontamination while they try and pin down the microscopic robots’ origins and programming. Jack doesn’t seem overly worried, but he insists on thorough medical checks by someone who hasn’t been infected. He has a hand on Ianto’s shoulder, keeping the woozy man upright. Ianto’s the hardest hit, Jack explains, being right at the end of the tunnel when the wall burst open.

Ianto is too out of it to be concerned by the fact that he’s naked in front of her, Jack still helping support him while she works. Owen is busy negotiating with the quarantine version of Mainframe, his now-familiar curses floating up every once in a while. Jack has no shame either, almost like he’s unaware of his nudity. Tosh is beginning to agree with Suzie’s idea that Jack really is from another planet, and when he cracks a joke about her reciprocating with a little skin, she actually laughs, and just gently reminds him that the biohazard suit is there for a reason.

But Owen — Owen she has to pull away from the computer terminal, and it feels good, her hands on his skin, even through the layers of the containment suit. He comes grudgingly, and she can feel the resistance in his muscles. He barely sits still for the exam; she regrets the layers between them, unable to feel the slide of his hair under her fingers as she checks his scalp, the warmth of his flesh, the texture of it, dulled by the gloves. But he moves when she tells him to, and she bites her lower lip and forces herself to concentrate as her hand slides down his lower back.

That night she goes home and dreams of running her hands over him again, nothing between them now, just Owen, pliant and trembling beneath her, begging and breathless. She tastes his skin, the slope where neck meets shoulder, open and vulnerable. She digs her fingers into the muscle of his arse, spreads his cheeks, works him open. She wonders what it would be like to fuck him, to make him quiver and gasp, shake apart and lose control. She wants that — she wants to hold him down, see him lose that cool composure, see him beg for more as she presses inside him, opening him up, makes him spill all his secrets, tumbling down to her level. She imagines him, face pressed to the pillow, begging to taste her as she rides him, faster and faster until she comes with a scream that wakes her up, wet and aching and alone.

* * *

After that, she watches him. At first she lies to herself, saying it’s just idle curiosity about a new teammate, or because of security. Owen _is_ snappish, and tends to defy Jack’s orders in improbable ways, but if she were confronted about it, she’d have to admit that it was never in a way that might debilitate somebody else.

And at least from this camera angle, the girl doesn’t exactly seem harmed. Her face is scrunched up in an ecstatic expression, lips pursed to form a perfect O, a bright red against pale skin as Owen bites at her neck, his fingers working deep inside her. The cameras in the club are low quality, and the lighting dim, so she can barely make it out. His fingers are long and slim — delicate, almost — she’s felt them before and she can nearly feel them now on her own skin. A rush of heat runs through her.

Even with no sound on the feed, she can see the exact moment the girl’s orgasm hits: her head snaps back, hips rocking harder, and she leans into Owen’s hand as he moves faster, her scrap of a thong pushed carelessly to one side as his fingers slide in and out, relentless. When she drops to her knees, reaching for the open fly of Owen’s trousers, Tosh cuts the feed hurriedly, hands skittering across the keyboard, heart pumping fast.

This really isn’t what the CCTV system is for.

But she finds herself doing it again anyway. Maybe, she thinks, if she sees it enough, if she just gets used to it, convinces herself he’s just like everyone else, then she can put this aside. He is rough, and arrogant, and she wants to see him stumble, falter. She wants to see him vulnerable.

His face when he comes is beautiful and open.

* * *

Watching does what closeness cannot, and while her interest in Owen doesn’t fade, specific images get lost in the blur of time, replaced by his repeated — almost deliberate — demonstrations that he’s not like that image in her head. Knocking himself off the pedestal before she can do it herself.

She’s almost managed to forget about it. Tommy wakes up and she gets wrapped up in him again — he’s so nice and sweet, and she’s forgotten what it’s like to have someone so polite pay attention to her. She doesn’t consciously recognize it until she’s caught by surprise when he holds the door for her when they go out, and pulls her chair out for her, and all these little things that she wasn’t expecting, and she’s not sure if she wasn’t expecting them because there’s no one else nice enough to do those things, or because she’s used to doing them for herself.

But sitting on that bed — not really sitting at all, even, just a vision inside his head — she’d looked into Tommy’s eyes, and nothing had looked back. He didn’t remember her. There was no recognition, no warmth, not even sadness at the loss. She wonders if what she had with him even mattered, if he’d turned that key because she’d asked, or because it was asked of him. She wonders if Owen would remember who she was, if he would do what she asked, if it ever came down to that. She pushes the thought aside, not wanting to know the answer. She’s trying to forget all that, focus on the present.

So when Jack pins her with his stunning grin and suggests that Owen might borrow some of her clothes to go check out a club with some suspicious proprietors — not that he couldn’t get in on his own, obviously, but he’d had such _fun_ last time, hadn’t he? — it takes her a moment to realize that other than Owen himself, she’s the only one left to get Jack’s joke. That sends a sharp pain through her chest, enough to mitigate the burning in her belly, and she can laugh at the unhappy exclamation from Owen, coupled with the confused looks from Ianto and Gwen.

Gwen offers to help, sparkles of amusement and interest flickering in her eyes. Tosh doesn’t think about the flash of jealousy that rises in her before Owen casually turns Gwen down, saying her hips are too wide. The only misgivings Tosh has are about letting Owen into her own flat, someplace none of the others have been before, not even Jack. Jack has always respected her space.

“Ianto’s just going in trousers and a vest,” Owen gripes. “All he’s got to worry about is chafing. Why do I have to get all kitted up?” he asks.

“Because Jack practically dared you, and you’re not going to back down from that,” she reminds him, pulling a couple items out of her closet, not turning around to see him sitting on her bed. “Besides,” she adds, “You looked good.”

“Really?” Owen perks up a bit, interested, like he wasn’t expecting that.

She licks her lips. “Yeah.” After Mary, she’d thought maybe it was just that, that she was interested in girls, and Owen — blurred the lines, something like that. But no. It’s _him_.

“Hm. Well, I don’t think I really have to try that hard for this. I mean, I’m not plucking anything.” He says it with some disgust, and she has to smile.

It’s a good thing that Owen doesn’t have to go for passing as a woman, because no matter what he said to Gwen, Tosh isn’t much better as a size match. He could squeeze into some of her largest skirts if he _really_ tried, and when he does, it literally looks painted on.

“Maybe if we took out a little of the pleating, add another inch or so to the waistline...” She suggests doubtfully. It might be easier just to take Owen to the store. Then he could at least wear underwear underneath.

But there’s something undeniably fascinating about him wearing her clothes. She crosses her legs neatly at the ankle as she leans against the armoire.

Owen runs his hands down over his stomach to his thighs, and Tosh can’t help following them with her eyes. “So long as I don’t have to bend over —” God, she wants to bend _him_ over. “Do you have anything flash? I mean, it’s too bad I don’t have to fake tits for this one —” he makes that same gesture with his hands, and she wants to tug his hands around, place them on _her_.

“That’s easier,” she manages. She knows exactly what she wants him to wear. It’s not flash, but it’s low-cut, with a kind of swoop-neck that would reveal cleavage even on her, and it’s got just enough shoulder to make up for his breadth. The occasional silver thread glints through the black fabric.

She doubts he’s aware that it’s definitely not her size.

“You know you’re never going to fit into my shoes, right?”

His nipples are standing out against the smooth fabric. His forearms are bare.

Owen nods. “I couldn’t run in those heels last time. Don’t know how you do it.” He frowns, as if he’s putting serious consideration into this, and the thought sends a little thrill through her. “I’ve got some Doc Martens. Don’t wear ‘em much, but they might do the trick.”

Her fingers twitch with the desire to touch him, and she makes him change before they leave again. Owen complains that he’ll never be able to get the skirt back on again, and Tosh reminds him that Ianto can let it out, and he can keep it if he wants.

The fact that she actually said that _out loud_ keeps her silent for the rest of the trip.

* * *

Owen must have somehow caught a hint after that. He actually asks if she’s been out to a couple of the clubs, and she recognizes the names of a few of them. He catches her blush, and he doesn’t back down. Dear god, she’s caught his interest. She doesn’t know what to do with that, and she falters, flustered. Yes, she’s been out once or twice, when boredom or frustration or the vain hope of ‘running into him’ had driven her out, curious to see what it was that drew him out in the first place, but she never found it. She’d even pulled once or twice, men and women both, but she’d always chickened out instead of taking them back home, sneaking away or arranging an automated call from the Hub.

She doesn’t like anonymous, and she doesn’t like feeling unsure. But she’s not used to being pursued, to being wanted.

But that’s what she wants, right? For Owen to want her.

She falls back on what she’s used to. Science. Observation. She makes little tests, and tracks his reactions.

Dress doesn’t matter. She already knows Owen likes pretty things — but so does Jack, and Gwen’s fashion-conscious enough to pay half a mind to what Tosh is wearing as well. And she doesn’t want to change who she is to get Owen’s attention. That’s tiring, and she’s had enough of that.

And touch — she tries it a little, but Owen doesn’t really notice. He’s handsy enough himself, and Jack and Gwen are as well, that he doesn’t really take note. It gets the occasional flick of an eyebrow, and he accepts it well enough when she gives a slight shove to his shoulder or moves him physically out of her way, but his touch is no different than before, there’s no escalation, no reciprocation. So she gives up that route. Or, rather, gives up actively investigating it. She’s not going to stop touching him if he’s not even going to _notice_.

It’s what she _says_, she realizes. Owen doesn’t seem like the type that listens — but then, he always does what will benefit him the most. It’s always frustrated her the way he ignores her comments, lets her insults roll right off his back. But when she starts to tell him _why_ he’s wrong, he stops, and he listens. And once he begins to match tone with meaning, she doesn’t even always have to elaborate. When a packet of aspirin appears on her desk, and he casually says ‘don’t want you yelling at me all day,’ she stops short, and smiles at him before he disappears.

It’s never anything big. Always small things, like he’s afraid of being found out. But his words are changing as well. There are fewer cutting insults. When he’s right he’s still right, and those observations are sharp. But he doesn’t bring them out just for the fun of it. And sometimes they’re helpful.

Sometimes, she thinks he wants to impress her.

The problem is that they’re dancing circles around each other. Owen’s not making a move, and Tosh doesn’t want to embarrass herself, and it’s frustrating the hell out of her.

She has to get these feelings out somehow, or she’ll take it out on someone she shouldn’t, and before she knows it, she’s in a smoky, badly lit club, with flashing lights and strangers everywhere. A drink or two and she can push all that away: she finds a nice boy, fair hair and skinny shoulders, and she can tell once he sets his eyes on her that he wants her, will do what she wants.

But that’s not what she wants.

She tells the bartender she’ll be back for her keys tomorrow and steps outside to call Owen.

“Harper,” he says, a distracted mutter. There’s no background noise, so she can’t tell where he is, but it’s probably not another club.

“Owen?” she says. There’s a bit of a tremble to her voice, but it’s just the chill in the wind.

“Tosh?” He immediately sounds more alert. “What’s up?”

“Can you come pick me up?” She crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn’t feel uncomfortable, not really. She doesn’t.

“Where are you?” She’s surprised he doesn’t ask any other questions, or complain, so she tells him where she is, no evasions, no insinuations.

He’s there inside of ten minutes, and he actually hops out of the car and comes over to her, even though there’s no one else outside but the doorman. Bouncer, really. She hopes he remembers that the bruise on her arm is from the Weevil the other day.

“You all right?” He puts a hand on her elbow and looks her up and down.

“Yeah,” she says with a smile. “Just all this —” she waves a hand behind her at the club, “— isn’t really my thing.” She steps away from his hand, only to reach out and catch his wrist, trailing her thumb over his open palm. She takes a breath.

“Do you want to go back to yours?” she asks, before she can take it back, lie and say she’s just drunk.

* * *

Owen’s flat is sparse, practically empty of everything, even furniture, the main attraction the wall-to-wall plate glass windows, overlooking the bay in an uninterrupted panorama. Tosh isn’t looking out them, though. She’s pressed against them, the cool panes on her bare skin a marked contrast to the heat radiating from Owen’s body.

His kisses are long and deep, tongue sliding over lips and teeth, lazy but thorough examination, and if it’s half to hide his discomfort over the open windows, Tosh doesn’t care. In fact, a little part of her thrills at the way she’d won over his protests, revels in the way he bends to her, wonders how much more he’ll take. The rest of her is just reveling in the fact that she’s doing this, observable, recordable, un-erasable. If it’s seen, you can’t say it never happened.

His hand slides up her thigh, curving down to cup her arse, two fingers teasing at her slit. She trembles a little at the way his fingers feel, sliding against her wet skin, twisting inside of her, and she tries to push it aside. Instead she pulls him closer, and the quick way he drops to his knees goes straight to her groin, and when his hands slide up again, working and coaxing in time with his mouth, she doesn’t say a word in protest.

After, staring out the window at the bay, the lights of the city are blurred. “Ought to get that cleaned,” she murmurs, then closes her mouth when she realizes she’s spoken aloud. It’s not just fingerprints and body oils obscuring the glass.

Owen is staring up at the ceiling. “That’s what the cleaning service is for.” She can’t make out the look on his face in the ambient light. But she can tell his eyes are open, though he’s lying at cross-angles to her. “Not my problem.”

She reaches out towards the glass. “Even though most of the mess is yours?”

Owen snorts. “I had some help.” He stands and walks towards the kitchen, windows forgotten for the moment.

* * *

The rules are simple, though Owen seems to have a hard enough time obeying them. Tosh is hardly surprised. Even bowed under her, her hand pressing his face between her legs, he tries to see how far he can bend the rules. He mouths at her crotch, tongue lapping heavy over the juncture of thigh and hip, the strong jut of tendon. She can feel his breath ghost across her skin; sharp, warm gusts as he’s too busy to breathe steadily, and she refuses to squirm, to show her impatience, and instead presses his face against her flesh — since he wants to, so badly — until his shoulders arch and buck underneath her as he tries to wrench away, unable to breathe. She lets him up, catching him under the chin as he pulls away, red-faced and gasping.

“Behave,” is all she says. Just the one word, a command, not a question. He stares up at her, searching for — something, she’s not sure what. His face is hard, defiant.

Then, slowly, the rebelliousness fades as he ducks his head, neck stretching a little further as he twists to draw her fingers into his mouth. She lets him suck on her fingers for a moment, thrusting two of them idly in and out of his mouth. Not deep enough to trigger his gag reflex, just to feel the warm wetness of his mouth. She pulls her fingers out, tracing saliva over his cheek. He’s watching her again, looking, waiting to see what she’ll do next.

Do to him.

His erection is obvious, balls drawn tight, head leaking, but he’s been good so far, keeping hands off. If he keeps playing along, Tosh thinks idly, she might let him come without too much begging. Though the way he writhes, desperate for any sort of touch, is beautiful, and sometimes that gets her off more than his hands, or mouth.

That’s all he’s allowed. He can use his hands, or his mouth, or both, but that’s all he’s allowed to do, or punishment is swift and brutal, and no amount of begging will change her mind. If she wants more, she will tell him, and he’ll do exactly what she says.

He’s learned that the hard way.

Owen waits — almost patiently — not moving away, his eyes watching her, trying to predict, trying to pick her façade apart. She presses his head down again and he bends easily, exactly where she wants this time, tongue sliding a long stroke over her labia, stroking deep between her lips, the slick press of muscle pressing against her sensitive folds. Her hands curl into his short hair, keeping him in place as her hips rock steadily against him.

He makes a muffled noise and shakes his head slightly, fingers gliding across the edges of her pussy as he moves lower. His thumb curls over her clitoris, brushing over it then pressing behind it in an irregular rhythm that keeps her on the edge. She jerks his hair slightly in warning, and he lets out a low noise, tongue sliding deeper inside her.

When she comes, his tongue pushing steadily against that secret place inside her, she can feel her blood pulsing against him. She stares at him the whole time: the way his back arches and flexes, the way his hips stir restlessly in the air. His neck curves, as his whole body leans in towards her. When she lets him up at last, his face is slick with her juices, and his eyes are glazed with pleasure.

She decides maybe this time he’s been good enough.

* * *

She doesn’t tell him. Not at first. She already has him, and part of her is afraid to ask for more. The sex is great — really great — and Owen has no objections to anything she brings up. Accedes willingly, in fact, but she’s still sure she’s going to hit a barrier if she brings up — that. She’s not even sure herself, sometimes.

But they’re not in a relationship, per se. They’re just having sex. And she wants more. She wants to see inside him, know everything about him. She wants someone who’ll look at her and see everything about her and not find anything wrong with it, not want anything from her because of it.

She’s pretty sure Owen wouldn’t care. But she suspects he wouldn’t open up in return.

Things change after the Space Whale. It doesn’t feel right to relegate a creature like that to the files with no name and no idea where it really came from, but they’ve got nothing better. Jack quietly says he’ll see what he can do, and Owen insists.

He’s shaky, though, and Tosh leads him back to the car, watches him go through the motions back at the Hub. They’re all shaken, and there’s Gwen and Rhys to deal with, but Tosh finds that for once she doesn’t care about Gwen and her normal life. Instead she watches Owen, and prods him when he falters.

When he makes no move toward leaving she makes up his mind for him. Plucking him up from the Medical Bay, she deposits him in her car. He doesn’t even protest when they end up at her flat.

She sits him down on the sofa and abandons him for a moment, crossing the open space to the kitchen to rummage through her cupboards.  
“I’ve got wine, or I’ve got gin, take your pick.” Owen doesn’t pick, so she chooses gin. She grabs the bottle and two glasses and joins him on the sofa, kicking off her shoes as she sits. She doesn’t hand him a glass right away, though. Reaching out, she runs her hand through his hair, cups the back of his skull, and pulls him unprotesting into a rough hug. He hides his face in the nape of her neck, wrapping his arms slowly around her waist. He pulls away after a minute and sits back, shoulders still stiff. She pours them both a shot.

“You really are quite bad at this,” she says conversationally, handing him his glass.

“At what?”

“Admitting defeat.”

He shrugs a little, defensively. “I just don’t like not having choices.”

She looks at him, and she knows that’s not true. He doesn’t like too _many_ choices, open options. “You just wanted the only choice to be the one you wanted.” She takes a sip from her glass, and he does the same, uncomfortable, looking for some way to avoid admitting it. He’s waiting for her, she realizes.

She puts down her own glass and pivots around, moving to seat herself on his lap, legs bent, pinning him to the sofa. Her hands trace over his lips, his cheeks, cradling his face. “You did the right thing,” she whispers, and kisses him, deep, relentless, not letting him argue or back down. He falls into it, opens up underneath her, allowing her tongue entry, and the way he clutches at her back, body leaning up towards her, fills her with fire, a searing heat that curls down from her breastbone.

She kisses him harder, tongue chasing after his, nipping and worrying at his lower lip. She grinds down wantonly with her hips against his incipient erection and he moans into her mouth, breathing ragged. She squeezes his shoulders, mouth trailing down his jaw, sure she can feel his pulse from here.

She pulls away suddenly. “Bedroom.” No request, the word entirely an order, and Owen obeys it, shedding clothes as he goes; shoes, shirt, plucking at her own clothes until she pushes him back and pulls the shirt over her head herself. He’s walking backwards and trying to take his trousers off at the same time, and he hits the bed right at the back of the knee, automatically folding to a sitting position.

She can feel the lust building inside of her, more for the desire and obedience in his eyes than the heavy erection still shielded by cloth. “All the way,” she says, pointing, and he obeys both commands, stripping the rest of the way as he moves back fully onto the bed.

She’s naked too by the time she joins him, but she feels wrapped in power, _strong_, and the way he looks at her as she balances her body over his is pure desire, absolute submission. All of his movements are a desire to please, and he ducks his head, hands slow as they skim across her belly, moving down. She shivers a little, and moves his hands away.

She reaches out instead to the nightstand, and she feels his mouth trail gently over her skin as she leans past him — he wouldn’t be Owen without some amount of disobedience. She begins to murmur to him as she works, distracting him from her hands on his dick, the way she slides carefully onto him, wet and ready and greedy. Her hips work steadily as she fucks herself on him, but her lips move too, and she picks up her pace incrementally, matched by her volume, and she’s telling him everything she wants to do to him, with him, all the ways she wants to take him apart, make him want, and as she’s flying apart, make him know there was only one choice all along.

She’s not quite aware just how much she told him until the next day, when she sees him in the kitchen. He’s reaching up to grab something off a high shelf, and right there, where his t-shirt pulls away from his trousers, is not just flesh, but a flash of lace.

And of course, she has to check.

She tugs him to a halt, right there in the kitchen, fingers tangled in his beltloops. “Let me see,” she demands, and the soft rush of red over his cheeks betrays any chance he has of denying he knows what she’s talking about. He only hesitates for a moment though, then he slides his thumb over the button above his fly, popping it open, and pulls down the zip as well, the denim parting to reveal his secret.

She recognizes the panties — one of the few pairs she has in satin, a calculated choice against the plain cotton. It’s still a tight fit against his skin, and the line of his cock stands out clearly against the fabric, outlining the swell of his balls and the flare of the head. It should look preposterous, but her hand trails over it instead, and she pushes him back against the counter, trapping his legs as she tugs his jeans down further.

He stands perfectly still, and she runs her lips over the shape of him, made soft and smooth by the fabric. She’s on her knees in front of him, linoleum cool beneath her, but the muscles of his stomach are taut and trembling, and he goes where she pushes him.

Confidence fills her with lust, and she wants to turn him around and fuck him right now, up against the cabinets in her kitchen. She can see exactly how he would look, flushed and confused, with just that hint of want and strange defiance that always leaves her questioning if he’ll come back.

But he’s here, now, knuckles white against the counter as she teases him slowly through the fabric. She slips her hand inside, drawing him out, hand tracing up and down the shaft. The head is a flushed, ruddy color, and warm as she closes her lips over it. She can taste him already, a sharp tang, and she traces over the smooth crown with her tongue before pulling away.

Tosh has never liked giving blowjobs, they’re too messy and awkward. Too many variables, too much room for error. But her pulse is pounding hard as she mouths at the fabric covering Owen’s balls, soaking it and making it cling even more, the delicious slide against her tongue making her moan and slide a hand into her own trousers.

Owen lets out a strangled curse as her fingers slide lower, to play with his perineum and press against his prostate, massaging it from the outside. His cock twitches, half trapped in the petite underwear. She gives it a lingering caress as she rises to stand. Owen leans in to kiss her, and she lets him, his lips trailing over her neck as she reaches behind him for the oil. His hand glides over her hip, teasing at the waist of her trousers, and she pushes him around.

She guides his hand back down to his own cock, moving with him for a few strokes. “Keep going,” she murmurs, settling in behind him to watch. The fingers of her other hand slide between the cheeks of his arse, a slick tease, and she takes her time, working him open.

Owen gasps and rocks back into her fingers, but he does what she says, hand curling around his erection. Trapped between the two, it isn’t long before he comes, shuddering and bucking, white fluid spurting from between his fingers, coating his hand. He sags back into her and she kisses his shoulder lightly. Her hips twist unconsciously, and she can feel the heat between her legs.

This feeling now is almost better than the orgasm.

* * *

He doesn’t like it all the time; Owen is nothing if not contrary, but he only snaps back when she pushes too hard, tries to make decisions where he’s already got an idea in place. The rest of the time, or when he’s not paying attention, she has the reins, and it’s glorious in a way Tosh hasn’t thought of before.

He’ll show up at her place, or just clamber into the car with her, and without having to say a word she knows he’s giving control over to her. It’s thrilling, and a little scary. Part of her is afraid to disappoint. She wonders what will happen when she can’t come up with something, what she’s supposed to say, do. They’re still so distant in a lot of ways.

So she starts building it up. In little ways at first, making him wait, with dinner or just on the sofa, his head in her lap while she reads. He’s still impatient, and he’s always curious, but he almost never complains. She can see he’s unwilling to admit how much he likes it, even when he is relaxed.

She finds it hard to flat-out ask, out of nowhere. It reduces her to stammering and stuttering, and she hates that. The easiest way is to just trick herself into saying it, make herself believe it’s something casual, when really she’s going to say “I want to see you in a skirt.”

And she’s still — always, every time, no matter what — surprised by Owen’s reaction, the way he quirks his lips and rocks up against her. “_Just_ a skirt?” he asks, and she’s never sure which part arouses him the most — the picture, or the fact that she wants it, demands it, or something else she’s not aware of.

She pushes his head down and he mouths eagerly at her breasts, teeth skimming over the fabric. His tongue works roughly against it, and she hisses in pleasure at the sensation. His hands move quickly over the buttons, but she doesn’t let him up to push the fabric away, undo the catch of her bra, until she’s fully satisfied, hips rocking, pupils blown.

His fingers tease, skimming the undersides of her breasts, cupping them, tracing the edges of her aureoles even as he laps at one, then the other, forming hard points of pleasure as he works. “Tell me more,” he whispers against her skin.

“You act like you don’t care, but you’re always hiding your body,” she says, feeling the tense and pull of his shoulders, the way his muscles play beneath his skin. She sits up a little, tugging his shirt up, exposing his stomach. She draws her hand across his belly, teasing at the line drawn by his waistband. “But you’re gorgeous, and when you dress up, god, it just shines through, all I can see is _you_.”

He blushes. He actually _blushes_, ducking his head and Tosh just has to pick it back up, one hand tucked up under his chin, and kiss him. Her other hand strokes him through his trousers, and he moans into her mouth, hands tugging at her hips.

“I want you.” She snatches at the buttons on his trousers, pushes them down, as far as she can reach without moving away. “I want to be inside you.” Her fingers reach back to slide against the cleft of his cheeks and he rocks back against it. “I want to open you up, all those hidden places. I want _you_.”

She slicks her fingers up and presses two of them inside of him, feeling the clench of muscle, watching his stomach rise and fall as he gasps for air. She presses harder, opening him up, brushing against his prostate. She wants to fuck him, ride him. She wants him to fall apart.

“Please,” he gasps, and he turns his face away again. She slides a third finger in, directly massaging his prostate. His cock is hard, jutting up towards his belly, but she ignores it, save for a soft stroke of her thumb across the skin behind his balls. She’s concentrating on inside him, and she wants to see it on his face.

“Look at me,” she says, and he does, turning his head slowly, unwillingly. She slows her fingers in response, flexing against tight muscle, stretching him. The blush is still present across his cheeks — he has lovely cheekbones, and they really stand out now — and his mouth is parted slightly. She kisses him, leaning across his body, fingers still inside him, making him reach up to meet her, his hand trailing lightly over her stomach.

He rocks into her fingers, doing as much as he can short of physically pulling her down. She can tell he wants to, the way his hands skate and flitter across her skin, pressing then pulling away like he’s not sure, like he’s toeing the line — drive him any further and he’ll collapse, break all the rules — so she pulls back, taking his prick in hand at last, touch still feather-light, and presses deeper inside him, over and over, until as last she whispers, “Come for me,” and he does, messily, over his stomach, her hand, the bed, muscles spasming against her fingers as she softens and then stills her hand.

She’s already riding the high of his orgasm, and she barely lasts long enough for him to move in between her thighs. His tongue glides over clit once, twice, and she’s gone, wrapped up in everything, and she never wants to be anywhere else but here.

* * *

When they have sex, they don’t always spend the whole night together, and where they end up is almost a matter of chance, though Tosh is pretty sure they end up at her place more often than not. She feels more comfortable there. But they both leave without saying anything to the other, and neither one has brought it up. Tosh is — not _afraid_ to do so, but she’s sure Owen’s opinions wouldn’t line up with her own here, so it’s best not to bring it up. She’ll just have to coax him ‘round.

Eventually. It’s nice to be able to escape, too, when his quiet scrutiny becomes too much, or his temper starts to flare.

They’re at her place tonight, but she’s restless, and slips out of the bed, Owen’s bare shoulder curved to face her as he lies on his side. She dresses in the bathroom, planning to slip out to the Hub, get in a few hours of work before the others start to show up. Though she shouldn’t tell Jack, or he’ll think he can ask her to come in whenever he wants —

Owen’s not in the bed when she comes back out, but she doesn’t notice it until she spots him outside on the balcony. He’s pulled his jeans back on, and the dark denim sits low on his hips. There are two parallel scratch marks low on his left side, a dull red over his kidney. She takes those all in at first glance, but immediately dismisses them in favor of something more interesting.

He’s smoking a cigarette.

She’s never known Owen to smoke. He’s never even smelled like cigarette smoke. Possibly it’s a new habit, but his smooth motions, and the lack of difficulty on the inhale suggest otherwise. She leans back against the bookcase, letting the shadows and the vertical blinds hide her as she watches him.

His posture is that familiar mix of tension and forced relaxation, a slouch to his hips and his shoulders curled in as he leans against the rail. She knows it’s just a façade, but there’s no one there to see — She moves on. It’s hard to see his face, he’s only in quarter profile, and in the low light, she can’t be sure if he’s frowning, or just lost in thought. He’s somewhere far away, though, as he glances down to regard the cigarette before stubbing out the butt, flicking it down to land in the grass below.

Tosh moves away from the door and gathers the last of her things. By the front door, she hesitates, looking back one last time. Owen still has his back to her. Her fingers close tighter around her keys.

He would tell her if something was truly bothering him.

He would...

* * *

He shows her the dress.

He’s not wearing it, but it’s there, and there are spots of bright color high on his cheeks. She can see the way his hands are hesitant, barely touching the dress as he hands it over, still in its plastic bag. But his eyes follow it, and he’s here, showing it to her.

Of his own volition.

“It was by the door, in a bag. I think I was going to get rid of it.” He shrugs a little. Not that she can help. She hadn’t even realized he’d bought it. “Then I realized I was ... glad I hadn’t gotten a chance.” He’s looking at her carefully, like he’s trying to figure something out. Analyze her expression, her body language, some kind of clue, something.

“Do you want to put it on?” she asks, keeping her tone restrained. Of course, he must have already if he’s bought it. She can’t see any tags.

She could tell him. She could make him. But she knows how this works, this slow breaking down. He has to _want_ to.

She tries to keep it off her face, but the nervous thrum of energy, the tension of it singing in her veins, belies her calm exterior. She can see the moment in him where he decides, and it’s not the dress he’s looking at, it’s her.

He’s still tense wearing it, though, his bare shoulders tight, and he walks carefully, like he’s learning how to do it all over again, still afraid of losing his balance. It’s a simple dress; sheer, black, with an off-shoulder neckline that creates a sort of cowled drape over his upper arms, but his forearms are bare, and she loves that, loves the line of his muscles, the shape of his thighs, his stomach, visible as he shifts, the fabric stretched tight. It’s not that Owen favors baggy clothes, but he likes layers, and they don’t let her see him, not like this, and the taking them off — it’s a whole other thing entirely.

She doesn’t wait for him to get any closer, she can’t help herself. She reaches out, her hands tracing over the fabric at his hips, feels the solid flesh behind it, its warmth. He’s still watching her, but that’s okay, because he’s also _reacting_, his abdominal muscles fluttering beneath her hands, and he leans forward slightly.

She teases him, moving her hands indirectly, trailing smooth patternless paths over him, changing tactics and directions just when he thinks he has a handle on things. She can see he’s starting to get aroused, and that pleases her, but that’s not the point. Though it’s — mm, a very nice point. She runs a hand down his chest, brushing across the incongruous bulge in the front of the skirt, and he follows, searching for more, dipping his head to hide against her neck, mouthing softly at her skin, lips wet.

But that’s not the point, so she moves on. Owen makes a noise of protest, and his hands move up to her breasts, cupping them and rubbing small circles through the fabric, coaxing her nipples to hard points. She pushes him back to sit and climbs onto his lap. He starts to unbutton her shirt, and she slides her hand up his skirt.

With her pinning him, he can’t lean into it or away. He arches his back a little, and his own hands slide down to her hips, over her arse, pulling her harder against him. She grinds against his erection briefly before pulling away, pushing him down on the bed, and sits back a little to look at him.

He meets her eyes a bit defiantly, uncomfortable either with being stared at or with the situation she’s put him in. Leaning back on his arms, his leg crooked, thighs open, he can’t be anything but aware. And he never asks, but when she leans forward, one hand stroking up his inner thigh, reaching for the cleft of his arse, he opens up for her, tugs her closer, hand clutching at her as he rocks up into her touch.

Owen, she’s found, likes touch more than anything else. He doesn’t care about who’s doing what to whom, or what gets put in where. He just loves the hedonistic pleasure of skin, and the endorphin rush. To push him into overload, out of control, to the point where he’s begging, that’s what she wants. And he knows it.

She keeps the strap-on in a box under her bed. She can't decide if it's because she's just too embarrassed to put it in the drawer of her night-table, or if she's consciously separating the two. Because it means it's a conscious choice to take it out, a bit of a display to putting it on. She kneels on the bed, hips cocked a little as she twists to adjust the straps, fingertips running over the smooth leather. She concentrates on doing it correctly -- confidence first, and the rest will follow.

Owen, pinned between her knees, hinders the production more than helps it. His hands trace up her thighs, trying to slip between her legs, and his tongue traces over her fingers as she works. The slight edge of his teeth on her skin and his tongue against the leather is tempting, and she slips her thumb into his mouth, letting him suckle it gently for a moment while she cups his cheek, and then pushes him down again. He reaches up, and she shifts to plant a knee on his chest, ignoring him until she's satisfied.

The strap-on isn’t heavy, but it’s a comfortable weight between her legs. She strokes it idly, feeling the rush of power, excited by the way Owen’s eyes follow her every move. She shifts her weight off of him, and makes him turn over. She tugs at the zip of the dress, exposing the long pale line of his back, highlighted against the dark fabric. She can see his muscles shift with every move he takes. His shoulders bow and flex as she pushes him back down.

With him on his stomach, the pace is all up to her, and she takes advantage of it, takes advantage of everything she’s learned about him, every touch, every tease, to work him up, work him open, until he’s literally shaking with it, his cock hard, trapped underneath him. His skin is pale, and gives beneath her fingers as she braces herself.

She slides into him, and she can feel it, more than just the way his breathing hitches or he suddenly stills. He’s connected to her, she’s inside of him, he’s _hers_ and the idea of him just giving over like that goes to her head. Every inch of her skin feels sensitized — no, more than that. She feels like she extends beyond her skin, beyond her body. There’s a fire inside of her, and it spreads to her skin, then pools deep in her belly, between her thighs, in her chest, behind her eyes, in her fingertips.

Owen rocks back into her, needy, demanding, and she sets up a simple rhythm, hands tucked against the subtle groove of his hips. Even on his knees he still has some height on her, and she forces his legs open wider, adjusting his stance until she’s satisfied. The dress is pushed up high now, hem around his waist, a mess of shifting cloth that cuts off her view of his lower back, but she doesn’t want him to take it off.

She drives in deeper, biting her lip. Sex like this feels different, not just because of the strap-on itself, which stimulates her and gets her off differently than fingers, or a mouth, but the _act_, the way she can connect, everything else falling away. She rocks harder, fucking into him with long, deep strokes, speeding up slightly as she grows more comfortable, arousal building.

She’s so close, on the brink of something. Owen arches his back where she leans over him, and she pushes his hand away as he fumbles under himself. He whines, a high-pitched rumbling in his chest that she can feel across her front, pressed against him. But he’s coming apart for her, his breathing becoming more ragged, skin glistening with sweat, and he bucks back a little and loses his balance, sliding down to his elbows.

She takes pity on him and slips her hand underneath him. She strokes him firmly and he comes with a shout, almost like surprise, muscles spasming as he rears back into her before his knees give out. It’s more than she can bear, and she throws her head back, tries to soak him in through her skin before she comes at last, and it’s nothing like she thought; it’s glorious and it swallows her whole and it goes on forever.

Afterwards, he’s still wearing the dress. It’s slid back down over his thighs a little, but it’s still obscenely high, and the zip is undone in the back, and it gapes open whenever he leans over. He gives it an idle tug, but it’s more to give himself room as he shifts his leg than anything else, and he twists a little until his head is in Tosh’s lap.

“I used to give people whatever they wanted,” he says, voice low, introspective. “I used to think it was my job. What I was supposed to do.”

Tosh frowns a little, more surprise than anything else. That doesn’t sound much like the Owen she’s used to. But then, that doesn’t mean much. She combs her fingers idly through his hair, knuckles brushing against his scalp.

“I spent so much time giving that I nearly burned out on it,” he says, voice passionless like he’s talking about someone else. He purses his lips, and he rubs his fingers idly over the black satin, now creased and wrinkled. “And there was nothing left.” His grin is wry, sharp when he looks up at her. Self-abasing. “Did a shit job putting myself back together.”

She tugs at his hair a little in rebuke. “You seem to be in more or less one piece to me.”

He scoffs, then his eyes go unfocused. “I don’t think I fixed myself as much as I thought.” He smoothes the satin over his stomach and bends his leg, the skirt riding up again. The skin revealed is soft and delicate-looking. “Still, nothing left to hold out for, is there?” There’s something in his voice that she can’t quite grasp. She thinks about chasing after it for a moment, but if it was important, he would say — Owen doesn’t hold back — and she’s too content with now.

* * *

It’s all going so well that Tosh doesn’t realize how wrong everything is until Owen dies. When she blurts out “I love you,” she surprises even herself. She immediately wants to take it back, heart pounding hard, too overwhelmed by what’s happening to be angry with Jack, with Owen, with anyone but herself. But she has to say something, and as much as she’s trying, she can’t make him stay by force of will alone.

And then he’s still there, and she doesn’t know what to do. None of this was in her plan — not him dying, _certainly_ not him _coming back_, and she doesn’t know what to do. Maybe Owen’s right, maybe she doesn’t mean it, maybe she just wants to. But she wants so much from him, and he doesn’t seem to get it. She thinks briefly of their ‘date.’ He doesn’t get it at all.

Avoiding Owen forever isn’t an option, though, so she does what she has to and takes the high road, showing up at his place. It’s new and unfamiliar, and she likes that. It’s like a fresh start.

Owen cuts her fresh start off at the knees. “I'm broken, Tosh!” he snaps. “I don't _work_. I've got no heartbeat, no feelings, no tears!” His face is screwed up and angry, and he’s not letting her speak. “I have got nothing to give you!” Something else passes across his face, and he changes tack. “Do you understand that? Maybe that's what you want. Maybe you want somebody who's as screwed up as you — who's twisted and screwed up like you are.” He spits the words like venom.

Her cheeks flush red in shame, and her chest is tight. She’s frozen, dread and fear mixing with guilt inside her. “You want to see broken? Do you want to see broken, Tosh?” She tries to protest, tries to stop him, but she’s frozen in place, and the horrifying sound of his bones cracking, splintering like wood makes her want to retch, almost as much as the look on his face.

She’s still frozen after he runs out the door. It hangs open behind him, an unpunctuated silence. She closes the pizza box with shaky hands, and pours the beer down the sink. Owen has no bin liners — no trash at all, and nothing in his fridge, and she feels a start of guilt for even bringing the food in the first place.

She wonders why she _did_ come over. They haven’t — she and Owen, they’re not a couple, and she knows that. That was the point of the date. She wanted to change things. But she remembers the surprise in his eyes when she told him, the way he’d edged away again, when he’d been comfortable and laughing. Another mistake.

She looks around his flat. For all its decoration, and the fair amount of stuff strewn about, it doesn’t feel like it belongs to Owen. It could belong to anyone. It’s certainly not familiar to her. She realizes with a start that she knew he had moved, but she didn’t know why or exactly when, just that at some point he had. She thought she knew so much about him, but really she knows nothing.

And the only one who she was fooling was herself.

Back at the Hub, Owen appears calmer — he’s taken a shower, for some reason, and she _knows_ it was a mistake to go to his flat. She still can’t face him.

But she’s got to face herself.

* * *

When her doorbell rings, the last person she expects to see on the other side is Owen. They’d managed an uneasy truce after the incident with Parker, but she has the feeling she’d botched the encounter somehow. Failed to be reassuring. Failed to — something. Owen has been quiet since then, almost normal, save for the unexpected offer of dancing at Gwen’s wedding.

He’s standing on her doorstep, a soft expression on his face, and a garment bag in his hand. He holds it out to her. “I think these are a bit too low-cut for me any more.” There’s nothing vicious in his tone, not even slightly, but she still feels stung. She doesn’t take the bag, and instead gestures for him to come in.

Owen hangs the bag over the back of a chair and sits on the couch, and she is left unsure where to sit — across from him? Next to him? The chair? She stays standing. He looks at her carefully, that same searching expression from earlier on his face. The one that makes her want to hide, but she deserves whatever he’s come here for, so she makes herself face him.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Well, she wasn’t expecting that. She was expecting more anger, or cutting insight. Owen’s good at that. She’s not expecting this — gentleness.

“I —” she tries to wave it off. “Nothing happened to _me_.”

He doesn’t let her look away. “You lost someone you — loved.” There’s a catch in his voice, like he’s guessing. “That’s not nothing.” He smiles. “But that’s not what I was talking about.” He’s just close enough that when he reaches out he can catch her hand. "You know, Tosh," he says mildly, but it’s Owen so it can't help but sound unkind, "most people start with normal relationships and build their way up to the kinky sex, not the other way 'round." He tugs on her hand and she crumples, folding in next to him. His skin is cool to the touch, and she wants to cry.

Owen may be the one with the piercing insight, but you don’t really have to have that to put together everything he’s saying, and not saying. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

His arm slides over her shoulder, and he tucks her against his chest. It’s the same solid presence, even if it’s not as warm as she remembers. It feels different — no heartbeat, no breathing, she remembers, and tries to forget. For once she doesn’t feel the urge to struggle out of it. Owen runs a hand through her hair, and his head lies against hers, brushing her temple. “It’s not your fault.”

“Don’t —” she tries. “Don’t do this out of some sense of _obligation_, or —”

“I just want to help,” he says. He chuckles, and she can feel the movement in his chest. She places a hand over it, even though she knows he won’t feel it. “Because you know, none of this is very safe, is it?” That’s an apology. She knows that much. But she owes him much more than he owes her. What he said is more than deserved. And he’s right. She did want safe. “So I’m insufferably curious. I wanted to see what was going on up there.” He taps her temple. “And then, well. The more I saw, the less I could figure it out.” His voice is quiet, measured. “Sometimes I’m shit with people.” He squeezes her slightly, hand low across her stomach. “I think I missed the boat here, Tosh.”

She can’t feel his chest moving beneath her, but she can hear him speaking. “It’s all right,” she says, still queasy with guilt. “I think I did too.” His jumper, she realizes out of nowhere, hand resting against it, isn’t cut in a usual men’s style.

“I know this is a stupid thing to ask, because I really _can’t_ —” his face twists again. “But do you want to try backing up a little, starting over?”

She smiles at him tentatively. “Maybe we can skip the pizza.” She looks at him. Really _looks_. That’s not doubt in his eyes, that’s care. She’d been looking for this for so long that she’d forgotten what it was. But Owen is here, with her. They sit up a little, and the jeans are easier to recognize as womens’, the fastener on the wrong side, the cut low. The fit is snug. Something inside her warms a little.

She’s been so afraid that she won’t get what she wants, that she’s just been taking what she can. But if she doesn’t give back a little, if he doesn’t want to be here, then she’ll have nothing at all. She’ll be left with an empty shell.

His heart isn’t beating and he’s not breathing or circulating blood. He can’t feel her touch and he can’t eat or drink. But he can _feel_. And he feels powerfully — how could she forget that, even for an instant, when it was one of the things that had so attracted her in the first place? She’s been afraid of so much, and she doesn’t want to be. And she doesn’t want him to be afraid either.

Carefully, she reaches up and kisses his lips, cupping his cheeks with her hands. Owen is slow to respond, either because he’s not sure what she’s doing or because he can’t _tell_ what she’s doing. It doesn’t matter. “Whatever you want,” she says. “I’ll be here.”

* * *

Time slips away from her. Life only moves quickly when you want it to be slow. If she had the breath for it, she’d laugh, but every movement hurts now. This isn’t how she thought she’d run out of time.

Oh, she’s thought about dying before. Especially lately, with Owen musing at her quietly, hesitant words in the darkness. But there’s a painful irony here — not only that she’s dying now that she finally has something to lose, but that she’s putting off any chance of saving herself in order to help Owen. And she knows whatever she does, it won’t be enough. Maybe it’ll work, but it won’t be _enough_.

There’s a hitch in her breathing that she tries to ignore, but Owen’s too quick for her, asks if everything’s all right. So she lies to him. Flat-out lies, and there’s a heady rush that goes with it, sick and good at the same time.

“Come on,” he says, voice steady over the comm, a literal lifeline. “Let’s do this together.” _Together_, she thinks, a little giddily, and tries to concentrate. She can do this. She can do this for him.

The giddiness slides away from her with the small winking of an alarm light. She wants to rage right alongside Owen, but she’s too tired, wrapped up in pain. She can’t hold it back any more. “Please stop.” She’s crying. It’s not _fair_.

“Why?” Owen snaps the word out, voice still full of range and bitterness. “Give me one good bloody reason why — one good reason why I shouldn't keep screaming.” He sounds so perversely _alive_.

She chokes. “Because you're breaking my heart.” She can barely get the words out. The rest of the words stick in her throat, and she’s not sure if it’s emotion or the way her heart is beating so loud. She can’t get enough air, and the shock leaves her feeling clumsy and dumb. The tears on her cheeks are hot, but she’s so _cold_. He shouldn’t have to do this alone, _again_.

Owen quiets, and in that moment, she knows he’d do whatever she asked of him. If she gave him permission to rage again, he’d do that, and if she asked him to sit there and talk to her, he’d do that too.

She’d give that all up if he’d just _live_.

But if she knows nothing else, she knows a futile wish when she sees it. “Owen...” She tries to tell him one more time.

“It's all right. Really, Tosh. It's all right.” He knows. She can hear it in his voice.

And the tears in her eyes as the comm crackles into silence are because he’s right. She smiles.

It’s all right.


End file.
